


Beat

by simplyoverstated



Category: Original Work
Genre: Depression, Poetry, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide, TW:Suicide, poem, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 20:28:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10771833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyoverstated/pseuds/simplyoverstated
Summary: Just something I wrote





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW: suicidal ideation

Did you hold it in your hands? Feel it beating? It was beating. Once.

And you decided that it didn’t really matter, whether it was beating or not. It was still the same. It looked the same, felt the same. Almost.

And in that moment you wished it would stop, because the pulsing was frantic and lost and overwhelming. Why did it have to heave like that? Why did it have to throb?

It was only doing its job, after all. But that’s not your fault.

I wonder if you really wanted it to stop forever, or just for a moment. Just for a beat, so you could think.

You just wanted a second to think. Because it never stopped, and if it did, it wouldn’t just be for a second.

When it faded, did it make a sound? Does anything, really? That’s a stupid question. Of course it does. By existing, it is noticed. That’s just the nature of being.

So why are you noticed? You didn’t ask. Once again, you didn’t ask to be seen. Yet here you are, and if you left, it would make a sound. It would sound like rain, maybe. Or thunder. It would sound like your mother crying or the crackling of flames.

How could you do it silently? You would just have to wait.

How could you do it so that the sound it made wasn’t deafening, wasn’t earth-shattering. Maybe it could even be good. You could light another candle, save a life. Then they would say you left with the sound of laughter, of joy.

But you don't leave. Not yet. And still it beats. 


	2. Find your wings

You held it up to the light, just to see if there was more to it than that. There wasn't.

It was blue and red and hot and still. Not still; quivering. Ready. Kinetic. But nothing inside. Just itself, just what you saw the first time you cracked open your chest and scraped it out to check it was still there.

When you put it back it didn't fit quite right; a puzzle piece askew, but you couldn't help yourself, you had to see and feel. Squeeze and inspect and understand, you had to understand. But in the process did you crush a part of yourself?

Anyways it's not new anymore. You wish it felt new again.

Scientific inquiry turned inward, the body, just the body, living flesh and soul. The soul is another word for the brain. The brain is all you are, a few pounds of flesh in that hard head of yours. Yes, the one you keep pounding against the wall. That one. 

Heart and head, muscle tendon bone and bruise, bend and belch and be real and human. Disgusting. Dirty. Foul. Why do you hate your mind? Why do you hate the body that carries it around?

If you hate your body and you hate your mind, is there anything you love? You love her. And them. You love that feeling when you forget to hate your neurons and your chemicals and your stored humanity, stored in the form of flesh and fat and fear. Flying and forgetting, feeling good again and crashing back down after too short a time. Icarus, and your brain is your sun, and your body is the sea. What are your wings, then? You need to find your wings. 


End file.
